Date: Sun, 20 Apr 2003 00:25:08 -0600
From: thomas
Subject: SHADY'S CLOSET (Conclusion.)
SHADY'S CLOSET (M/m, M/f, inc. ped. celeb., rom., lit., humor.)
By
Pen Dragon
Can physical be squared? Jason had his plaid farm shirt
on when I arrived, and since he was more sleek than box-set it seemed
churlish to even fantasize anything more than two open buttons. The next
time I saw him, and it was at some little distance, he was bare chested.
"I think he needs a ride home," Dan said. I knew he lived in Andrew,
twenty gorgeous Iowa river miles away, so I waved at him and headed for my
one of a kind ride.
"Nice Suby," the boy said, anyways, I guess... He was
hardly in his twenties but not only totally but awesomely boyish, light
sandy hair, mild hawk face with blue eyes and developed to one and a half
stages beyond the coltish teen.
I move to LaMotte, just south of the River City of
Dubuque, from three years on Wilshire Boulevard Even in crazed Los Angeles,
my '77 Subaru received ten dollars worth of attention for every dollar I'd
put into it. It came to me, a little battered, but so free the seller,
friend of a friend, refused even the token dollar. "Just tow it." I did.
Four door, and rarer than rare is rare, a good-looking four-door. I
painted it British Racing Green, had an after-market vinyl top, tan,
installed, and about two hundred dollars worth of tan striping as offset.
A set of Subaru wheel covers concluded the exterior, except for, get a load
of this, four whitewall tires. Hard window tinting, I almost forgot. Big,
expensive tires. An amazing looking car, with two extreme features that
made it perfect, a, a reclining driver's and passenger's seat, and, b, rear
windows that rolled almost all the way down. For way under two thousand
dollars I had the most distinctive car in Los Angeles city or county, and,
so rare was my conversion, which it hardly was, that "Hemmings" sometimes
lists no Subarus, at all, as classics.
That Jason appreciated the ride, before hearing the four
thousand dollar audio, as you can imagine, added luster to whatever you did
with the formula to come up with him. We got in and steamed off, south,
rattling the long way through Bellevue through eye balm rolling farm and
woodlands.
I've never accosted another person. Even in bathhouses,
with all their assumed permission, I stand passively. I'm to cute, by
half, and it's a turn off to some guys, probably figuring, looking the way
I do, I'm Anthony Action and a WHO cornucopia of virality and bacteriology.
Nothing I can do about it, except get fat, it just comes with the
territory, so I've learned to sidle in, creep like, ready to shuffle off,
which, since I am, and particularly was then, a knockout. Be the bath
house as it may, I, by inclination am not the aggressor. I'm a writer,
wallpaper, bland, mediocre, uppity and taciturn, almost always ready to do
nothing. Two miles rolled by. Jason's display had been obvious, there had
been no reason to strip, and I vaguely recalled Dan saying words to the
effect the boy was, well, words to the effect of something. If sports are
played to inches, and fractions of inches, the same precision relates to
other fields, and I found myself glancing at him repeatedly, each time
assuring myself he was, to the very fraction of an inch, or the square root
of any such fraction, perfect.
He was returning my looks and we seemed to be weaving a
pattern. "Is it a problem for you?" I asked.
"Just sometimes," the twenty one year old teen said.
"Do you ever think it's helped?" I probed.
"It's kind of different around farms," he replied. "What
you look like doesn't matter as long as you do your share and are
reasonably nice most of the time. After that, it's just a matter of being
around, and, if you're around all the time, looks sort of get lost in the
shuffle, they are what they are and no one's going to go ape for or against
them."
"I wish to hell I'd grown up on a farm," I said, "we did
the New York suburban thing, twenty miles past Levittown. Not the city,
not the country, no livestock, lots of immigrants."
"I'm glad I did," the boy said, "though milking in the
winter is a little gruesome."
At this point, I accosted him. The muses hold sway most
of the time; I'm their patsy, passive and absorbent, but twenty five looks
now had done nothing other than shave the last micron off the slightest
discernable imperfection in his neck, broad shoulders, and totally hairless
chest; skin white (another bit of evidence for the `display' file), pink
eraser nipples. Without saying anything I reached slowly over with my
right hand and touched him, traced the backs of my fingers over his silky
pecs, finding his left breast and lodging it between two of my fingers. We
drove that way for some minutes. "If you want, we could turn left on top
of the next ridge," he said, indicating a flashing yellow light half a mile
ahead.
I turned. The paved road split to gravel, which we took,
and split to grass, which we took, finally wending our way along a skyline
where the road opened up into acres of meadow. I parked and we both leaned
back to roll down the rear windows, then let the seats a ways back. It was
way comfortable and we torched some homegrown.
"Take your off, too, why don't you?" Jason asked, meaning
my shirt.
"I shouldn't have tried anything," I said, backing into
my artist's corner, "I was a fox in my day, that's why I said what I did,
but it's really cool for just to be friends."
"It's cool you're modest," he responded, "go to the city
and hang out at the pool and there's fat, hairy guys trying to muscle all
over you, and you could win out over eight out of ten teens. That's how I
look at it."
I was still reluctant. Besides writing I'm pretty close
to drop-dead as a photographer, and line and form make up my world. Mine,
yes, were outstanding, but his were perfect. Best to temporize; it was
hardly two, we had hours.
"Do you like talking about things?" I asked, and so
widely have I been published at this point I could have, with that single
question, written all expenses of our trip, to include dinner,
entertainment, and lodging off on my taxes, because, you better believe it,
I was conducting research.
"Yes," Jason replied simply, clueing me in – writers
love this kind of stuff – to the precise feelings of the spider at the
vibration of his web.
"I don't usually touch strangers or ask questions like
that," I said, "so there's no reason you have to cooperate or accommodate
or anything..."
"No," he said, "it's cool. I want to ask you personal
stuff, too."
"Okay," I said, "but if my curiosity gets to graphic slap
your fingertips with your palm and we'll change the subject or motor on
toward Andrew."
"I see enough boxes and speakers in here to change the
weather, how many watts?"
"Five hundred," I admitted.
"And I don't, at the moment, want to listen to one of
them," the beauty said.
We sat, just slightly reclined, looking through sparse
trees across the river and twenty miles on the other side.
"Dan said you lived in Maine for awhile, that's more
rural than New York," Jason said.
"True, through high school. It's not rural if you have
television and don't have horses, at least as far as I'm concerned."
"I never thought of it quite that way," Jason responded,
"but it does kind of fit. I meant more that, you know, up there it was
more rural in the sense of families being isolated. In contact with each
other more, with others, less."
"It gets that way, I'm sure," I said, "but there was no
difference between Long Island and Deere Isle. None. Get up in the
valleys and mountainous regions and the little pulp hamlets, and that's
probably more like here, but maybe five percent as prosperous."
"Well," Jason said, "that's what I was getting at,
because I wanted to tell you some things, but I thought it would be good if
you had some idea of what farm type life is like, you know, so you wouldn't
be shocked or anything."
"I'm not a libertine," I said, "and you're the first
person I've touched, spontaneously, in my life, male or female, but, if I
can hazard a guess at what you're going to tell me, I should tell you,
first, that, flat out and no holds barred, I like children. I liked it as
a child and I've never been the Lone Ranger when it comes to what's hot and
what's not; for example, I like all the perennial favorites on cable, and
none of the Oscar winners, year after year, and probably going back to
"Amadeus".
"I think everyone does," Jason said, "if you could rig an
instrument to people to tell what they really feel, I'll bet the number
would be up near half."
"It would put the church out of business," I said, "if
someone demonstrated that the toxin was not toxic, there'd be no market for
the antidote."
"Luckily," the handsome lad responded, "it doesn't work
that way here. The church is just about right. It keeps things from
getting out of control in the families, brothers actually breeding their
sister and dads their daughters. Farm play is one thing, but church gives
us a place to find a real mate, not a cousin."
"But," I suggested very mildly, as ever, the sponge,
"that role could be filled far better by a secular organization oriented
towards fitness, literacy, music, the arts, and socializing, not sucking up
ten percent as some kind of installment payment on an afterlife. Any
organization that restricts membership limits its talent pool. For
example, while many great singers, like Elvis and the Everly Brothers, came
out choral backgrounds, think how many equal talents never got a chance
because of this page of the bible or that passage of scripture, to say
nothing of the relentless cost of maintaining an infrastructure used a few
hours a week."
"Well," the Iowan said, "it's what we've got, and it's so
boring all there is to do is look at the girls."
"It must be nice to get home," I said, really being
careful not to let any irony seep into my voice, though I was quaking
inside from a, a little mirth, and, b, a lot of excitement.
"Have you ever been active with a child?" Jason asked,
appealing no end to the writer in me (a familiar story being small payment
for a new story).
"Funny you should ask," I said. "because, yes, it's just
started happening."
"A real child?" he asked, "or a legal one."
"Stephen's twelve, but looks nine, Ryan's thirteen and
looks perfect, as does his twelve-year-old brother, Stephan. Janet was
nine but she just turned ten."
"One out of four isn't bad," Jason murmured, nodding as
if to himself and leaving me nonplussed. The dry, arch thing is New
England to the core, and, New Yorker though I might be by circumstance,
royal Yankee I was by birth and breeding, standing back thirteen
generations to the Mayflower. Was Jason being fabulously cute, or
flat-footed pedantic? Inquiring minds want to know, but my mind wasn't
inquiring, it was reeling drunk on one side and frozen like early Windows
on the other. Picturing his classic Rick-Schroeder Greek body hunched
quietly over a willing boy or girl, exciting the naked child with his
gentle hands and mouth, was the kind of vision which should have kept
mankind scrubbed free of religion and taboo since that first tentative,
halting, berry-picking expedition. Moronic species.
"Janet wasn't bad at all," I found enough voice to agree.
"Had anyone touched her before you?" he asked.
"Her mother sent her to me because she was being active
with her younger brother," I explained.
"Had it happened inside her?" he wanted to know.
"Yes," I said, "she was wet from him when they spent the
weekend."
"That sounds pretty farm," the boy, because he was simply
too beautiful to be a man – "beautiful boy" works, "beautiful man"
leaves a lot to the eye of the beholder – observed.
"I always wondered why there was enough agriculture to
drive the cost of corn under three dollar a bushel," I said, writer that I
am, my mind apparently not devoid of inquisitional aspirations, after all.
"It probably is a factor," he allowed. "Think of a
factory worker in the tenements, he'd rarely have the opportunity to be
alone with his house mouse after she turned seven, so it's off to the bar
or the track, or prison if he does try anything frisky. Out here, fathers
and daughters and brothers and sisters, occasionally, mothers with their
sons or daughters, have plenty of privacy."
"And a barnyard of critters to show, even if they can't
tell," I added.
"No small factor," Jason agreed, "Angela and I wanted to
wait until she was seven, then we were out one morning trying to ambush a
rabbit or two, and a twelve-point buck took a fawn, tiny thing, cute as
Bambi, not fifty feet from where we were hidden."
"You didn't shoot?" I queried, not wanting to get bawdy,
not my style, but unable to resist. Jason's eyes glazed, and I, writer
that I was, interpreted it as off the memory of the hunt, thus finding my
answer.
"When did it happen?" I asked.
"Two years ago, when I was nineteen," he said.
I'm big on the voyeur thing due to tradecraft, but
something of a Victorian, fondling Jason's left nipple, aside, when it
comes to shucking and thriving. Slow to start, forever to finish, that's
the kid. On top of that was the natural reserve, thirty-two-inch waist
notwithstanding, of being old enough to have fathered the beauty. I wanted
to get out of the car, strip, and lie back on the hood with my head against
the windshield as I did with Stephen on our meteor-hunting expeditions, and
I knew it would be okay, but I just sat behind the wheel, and at least not
contemplating the buttons on the stereo. Stephen and I would remove an
article of clothing for each mutually witnessed shooting star, often with
long arguments over what constituted a meteor, in the first place, as many
flicked in and out of sight at the edge of perception. When we were naked,
we linked our legs and waited for twenty five more, usually best part of an
hour, before we hid ourselves from the sky to engage in extensive and
completely forbidden activities. Of course he, being eleven, now twelve,
didn't really count, not for league standing, leaving, a, Janet, and, b,
the two of us sitting in the car overdressed. This grew less tolerable as
the minutes passed, and, rather than straining my brain to think of some
clever way to initiate the proceedings I merely reached over and undid his
belt buckle. He responded by lowering the seatback and spreading his legs,
altogether too much welcome for the confines of the little classic.
"Over by that tree," Jason said, "it's a very special
place for me."
Click, click, bang, bang, we were out of the car, and I
know it seems facetious, but, besides being glad in other ways, I was happy
not to risk the tricked out interior of the Suby to any loss of control by
this practically shimmering stallion. For a moment it seemed odd that my
new friend had slipped back into his shirt, which, by the way, he'd been
wearing tied around his waist, as he exited the vehicle. "I'm sorry, uncle
Steve," he said as he leaned against the tree, facing the trunk, then
grabbing two branches at the level of his head. There's voyeurism and, as
I was finding out very fast, voyeurism. See what I mean: "I'm sorry I got
scared, you can come up behind me if you want to, I won't tell. It's just
that mom said I should wait `till I was twelve, but I love you, and you've
been cool to all of us, without asking for anything, so please forgive me.
I was just nervous."
"It's my fault," I said, "we should have talked a little
first. Maybe when you're older you'll understand how beautiful a boy your
age can be, and maybe you won't, but, meantime, I'm the one who should be
forgiven."
"Done," the eleven year old said, "and `meantime' for me
is that I like your being close to me. I guess half the reason I acted so
weird is that I want you to teach me, so much. I lie awake thinking about
if you're going to be, you know, sort of bold enough to try anything.
Sometimes I even look at my doorknob in the moonlight, willing it to turn."
"I just hope you feel the same way when we get back in
the pickup (tell me I don't know my subject) you'll feel the same way."
"I've never felt any other," Jason whispered as I closed
in. He'd both buttoned up and tucked in, so my hands went to his athletic
waist, then around front as I nuzzled his left ear.
"There will be a letdown, afterwards," I said, "and the
bad feelings – shame, anger, guilt, regret, and embarrassment will come
flooding back, almost in an instant. They last a few minutes, then they're
out with the bad air, but be ready to ride it out, sort of like getting
called on strikes without even swinging."
"Okay," the boy said, "does it always happen that way?"
"It usually doesn't, but I want you to be ready if it
does, and, my boy, if the feelings don't go away – the negative ones
– then I have raped you and you can take your story to the cop shop."
"I like it that you're trying to be funny," the cutie
said, "it makes it seem more like something we're just going to do
together, like eat five lobsters with hot, drawn butter, rather than the
beginning of the world or the end of creation."
"You guys have lobster?" I asked, since the nervous
little boy in front of me seemed to respond to the lighter touch.
"Sorry," the boy playing the twerp said to the fox
playing his uncle (that's me), "I didn't think you'd fall for that old
trap."
"I do have some pot in the car," I said, breaking up our
little play acting for the moment. We adjourned to the front bumper,
sitable, another convenient feature of the perfect little car, and I found
the magnetic thing that anyone could have left at any time without my
knowledge. I hadn't been lying, and in a minute or two we were burning,
adding excess to overkill, but, since physical couldn't be squared, it was
our only option. A few more minutes we were back at the tree. "I had to
reach up for these branches," Jason said, brushing two as he reached for
two higher handholds.
A decade dropped away, a useless one, since it hadn't
made me feel a day older.
"Jason, is it okay if I quiz you, ask you personal
questions?" I whispered, easing his shirt from his pants.
"Yes," the boy said, breaking character to add that there
was nothing like three hits of common ganja to summon innocuous truths.
"Have you done any experimenting?" I then asked.
"Sometimes," the boy replied, "when I'm in the shower I
pretend I hear the door open and I stand against the tiles and let you wash
my hair."
"Am I careful not to touch you?" I whisper.
"Not very," the boy giggles.
"Are we both careless about that kind of thing?" I probe
on.
"If anyone saw us," the cutie put it, "we'd both get
spanked."
"Would we learn our lessons, or would you go out and have
another bad-hair day?"
"I'd become a chimney sweep," the boy responded.
"Jason," I whispered, now seriously, "you're a beautiful
boy (I was fully up under his shirt, both of us panting), and other men are
going to want to do this with you. I want you to know it's okay,
applicable rules of dignity and decency adhered to. In this part of the
world, you can even hitch safely, and if you wear a cut off tee, last
year's shorts, and go barefoot, the results are guaranteed."
"But we'll do it, mostly," the panting boy said.
"We'll be friends more than mostly," I responded,
"whether this turns out to be a big deal, or not, and, meantime, I not only
approve of your being with other suitable partners at suitable intervals,
I'll do anything I can to expedite things at your behest."
"What if I wanted to do what you are with a little boy?"
the tiger asked.
"Use both hands," I suggested, pinching his nipples
gently and feeling him giggle despite his twenty-one years.
"It feels like you have three," he whispered, pushing
gently back against me.
"Are you hard, too?" I asked.
"Two fists of iron, one of steel," he said.
"Did you get a boner with your uncle, or did he have to
touch you?"
"When he reached over and scared me by putting his hand
on my bare leg, I got the biggest one I'd ever had, and when we drove away
from here, two hours later, I still had it."
I fondled him, huge and hard, "My god," I said, "you
should write `Guinness'."
"'Dear Sirs:'" quoth the lad, "'The search for the
world's biggest idiot, I'm sure you will be pleased to learn, is at long
last over. May I introduce, for your consideration...'"
"I have people for you to meet," I said, now more an
advocate and mentor than child molester, legal though Jason was (the intent
was still there, isn't that what counts?). "So it might be an idea to get
comfortable, I've got my winter emergency blankets in the trunk, and we
can, a, catch some sun, and, b, talk."
"The play isn't the only thing," the end-stage adolescent
said, and once again we broke off our little sitcum and adjourned to the
handsome green and tan car. By accord we did strip this time, replacing
the blanket with our clothes. Half way through disrobing, I connected the
play not being the only thing, and end-stage adolescent, and, in that
instant knew I had a book on my hands, forbidding amount of typing though
it would take to realize it.
Walking the hundred or so feet back to the tree, naked
and aroused, was more erotic than the thousand or so hours I'd spent in Los
Angeles bath houses, you guessed it, squared. Undoubtedly, women invented
clothes so men wouldn't spend the livelong day, every day, hunting with
boys. Fie, though I suppose it did preserve the species.
And I'd thought the walking was cool. We lay back on the
downy soft blanket and began slowly jerking off like experimenting teen
puppies.
"Janet needs a second husband," I began, rather cutting
to the chase because every time Jason and I tried to whisper to each other
we seemed to end up capering and japing and it was all so childish. Of
course, bringing Janet into the conversation hardly helped, I mean it would
be years before the girl was even sophomoric, but we can't have everything
our way, all the time, so I continued in the juvenile vein .
"She has me pegged because I'm something of a heavy
hitter when it comes to Web fiction, which she digs, but, since I'm
apparently some kind of literary wonder, I'm savvy enough to know that an
astonishingly young bride would be better suited to a husband in his
forties if she had a stallion near at hand. There's more," I added, "and
you will never, ever, cross my heart and hope to die, guess, believe, or
comprehend how much more."
This, of course, gets us back to Chicago. I tried, using
the understatement so painfully acquired over so many years of practice, to
ease him into his new reality; it did little good. "Marshall, who?" he
kept asking over and over again, sort of like a mantra, as I patiently
explained Stephan's vector into the paragon of ultimate inner circles I had
my friend half convinced when I came to the scene of Haley entering the
hotel suite. Ryan had passed the oral saga to Janet, and she'd outdone
herself as a graphic artist in relaying the legendary night to me, still
wet from her Katie-bar-the-door handsome brother.
Yes, Chicago. The little black dress, the high sweep of
her society coiffeur tumbling over her slim, nine-year-old shoulders as
Ryan readied her for his arms, and Marshall, Jason, stop asking Marshall
who: mega Marshall, the self-same Marshall who took after his mums in
public, thus permitting artists everywhere more liberty in, a, their
targets, and, b, their choice of slings, barbs, and arrows. Marshall Slim
Shady Bruce Mathers Eminem III.
Somewhere along the line I'd set an inappropriate tone,
it happens, and now it was time to set the record straight, so, from Ryan's
lips to Janet's ears, and Janet's to mine, the story now went to the
handsome Greek at my side.
The three, spent, lay on the bed for half an hour and
might have remained comatose for another minute or two, but Haley
whispered, "Daddy?" and no one felt the need of more rest.
"Yes, darling," Marshall whispered.
"Was it beautiful?"
"The only thing more, angel," the young father said, "was
watching you born."
"Modern men have it made," the girl said, her voice a bit
sleepy, "think of the Victorian dudes pacing the parlor floor for the one
event, and sending their child off on a honeymoon with who knows who, for
the other."
"Abnormal home lives kept men hard at work," Marshall
said, "if laxness and tolerance had been the order of the day they wouldn't
have needed coal because no one would get out of bed in the morning to use
it."
"They had to be real heroes," the girl said, "no cable,
not radio, no tapes, no computers, no Net, and still for the most part they
left their little girls alone and went out to build the world."
Their old theme again, the left out. It was tantalizing
because it almost made sense.
"Daddy?" the girl said again.
"Yes, love," Marshall whispered.
"Could we do another pretend, it was so beautiful being
Ryan's bride? Can I be your little girl in paper curlers and a bonnet and
flannel nightie like Melissa Gilbert?"
"Only if you're very naughty," the father assured his
daughter.
"I let the goose get at the butter," came a suddenly
weeping voice.
"So that's why I've been slipping and sliding," the
father growled.
The flood of tears, if anything, grew in intensity: "I
meant to throw the steak bone over the well to Lassie," the child wailed,
"I just wasn't quite strong enough."
"She'll float up in a day or two, pumpkin," the concerned
parent comforted, "then we can jig her out and you'll have her back, clean
as new."
"And Bucko, didn't his forelegs just get in the way, you
know, when he wanted to take a fence?"
"Not to mention when he wanted a sip at the trough," the
kindly man added.
"So I'm not all bad, then?" the child wanted to know,
next.
"You found a handsome, wealthy husband before your tenth
birthday, darling," Marshall answered, "and that has to count for
something."
"Good," the girl said brightly, "then he can take the
role of my brother – my very suspicious brother – in our play. Okay,
Ryan?"
"I suspect I'll love it," the boy agreed.
"Cool," the happy young director enthuses. "We start by
focusing. Is the Louis chair in the corner a pear tree, a cherry tree, or
plain old apple. We'd better put on some clothes and go find out, don't
you think?"
"I want to talk to you about something sis, will you meet
me at our tree?" Ryan intoned, falling into his part.
"It must be serious," the girl said as she wrapped
herself in a little something in lieu of a flannel nightgown. Ryan also
shucked into shorts and a shirt, Marshall remaining and huge as he watched
his daughter cavort. In a minute or two the thirteen-year-old boy and
nine-year-old girl met and knelt facing each other at their rendezvous, the
girl slipping out of character for a moment to inform the audience that
Laura was being played by Miss. Gilbert, but Michael Landon, too glossy for
any part, had been replaced by a twenty-something Patrick Swayze, while
Ryan played Ryan, a fictitious older brother..
"Remember when we used to come here before we knew about
being brother and sister: I must have been five, and you nine?" the girl
asked.
"We didn't know it was wrong to look," the boy answered.
"So, what did you want to talk about?" Haley said,
sensing her brother's anxiety.
"I guess it's kind of an issue thing," the boy replied in
a halting, embarrassed voice, "and I guess the only thing to do is come
right out and ask like I've rehearsed a hundred times: Haley, is something
going on with you and dad?"
"Jeez," the girl whispered, "I thought you were going to
ask me to put in a good word with Sadie or Marsha."
"You don't have to tell me, I guess," Ryan said, "I
shouldn't have brought it up."
"No," the girl responded quickly, "don't go. Just give
me time to think, please, but I don't mean to be coy or tease, so the
answer to your question is not No."
The young players knelt for a long minute staring into
each other's eyes.
"How do you feel about dad, Ryan," the girl whispered, "I
mean in general?"
"I guess he's kind of heroic," the boy answered, "keeping
us together, keeping the sawmill going..."
"All when he could, at the very least, be out in the
evenings finding someone to replace mom, or drinking away his loneliness,
or spending money on ladies of convenience, but what does he do?"
"Reads to us," the boy nodded, "makes us copy our
homework over so Miss Jones smiles, talks to us, cleans up the house if
we're tired. He's the best."
"And Ryan," the girl whispered, placing both hands on her
brother's shoulders and looking into his eyes, "if it's true, if I am
breaking some rules with him, and breaking them is completely my choice,
what I want as much as anyone can want anything more than food, clothes,
and shelter, then what? Does that mean you hate me? That you'll tell
somebody or go off and drown yourself? That you'll live forever scarred by
a fiendish sin and end up a wastrel and sot, all bent and twisted inside?"
"But in church..."
"Hush about that place, at least, baby," the girl said
softly, "it's nothing but a skin of ritual and pageantry, and, yes, serves
a purpose as a center for rites of passage, the promulgation of meaningful
behavioral codes, of secular inspiration by means of theater and choir, and
as a center for community involvement and stability, but that's the
beginning, the middle, and the end. When it comes to human behavior it's
empty without sin, which enables it to fill itself, and, here's the odd
part, forgives the sinner. Look at Nellie Coot. Three guesses what's
going on in her life, yet her father and uncles are seated, and I've even
noticed Rev. Patrick eyeing the plate deliberately as it passes down their
pew and they put their bills carefully on the left side so he knows they
give all the fives. Fifty dollars from one family, and that answers to
everything, and when Madge does finally go off and drown herself, guess
which local institution will welcome the ten brothers with doleful pats on
the back?"
"That's wrong," Ryan said.
"No it isn't," the girl whispered back, "The money has
saved three lives we know of, the brothers are mean and low but they work
hard and are important to the whole economy of the area, they don't go
after strangers or try to interfere with other girls in town, and Nellie
was disagreeable and a thieving liar when her mom was alive and they lived
like everyone else. That's the whole story, and the church is just a part
of it. Same with us, you, dad, and me; the church is just part of our
story, a few hours a week, and dad's lonely twenty-four times seven,
whatever that is."
"He is kind of handsome," the boy admitted, "but you're
just a kid. Dad's aren't meant to do..."
"Meant to do what?" the girl interrupted, "and besides,
isn't it girls who are meant to be ladylike, and not `do'?"
"I guess so," Ryan said.
"Don't use that tone," the girl rejoined, "you have every
right to ask, to be concerned, and to know. How would I feel if you just
shrugged your shoulders and thought to yourself, `so what?' Maybe even
called me names or told Ralph Gleason so he'd have something to use when he
comes after me."
"You know I wouldn't. I love you. I'm just jealous, I
guess. You're so beautiful I guess I'd be more surprised if dad didn't
take an interest in you."
"It's me who's interested in him," Laura said, "I lift my
nightie, he never has, and I light the candle after you and the girls are
asleep, because what happens is beautiful and I want to see everything."
"Do you have his, you know, his life inside you when you
blow out the candle," the young teen asked awkwardly.
"No, Ryan," the girl whispered softly, "that hasn't
happened yet. Remember the brush fire that almost got the hardware store
six months ago; we all piled out to fight it in the dark, no time to dress,
well most of the men ended up, you know, uncovered by the time the
emergency was over, and, it was a fire, so it wasn't dark, and dad was,
well, it would be rude to come right out and say it, but dad's just sort of
not built quite right for a girl my size, plus, if he freshened me like a
stallion takes a mare, it would wake you all up, speaking of which, what
makes you suspicious, anyway?"
"Sometimes boys do something they shouldn't at night,"
Ryan said, his blush unnoticed in the moonlight, "and it, you know, makes a
certain motion, and you can kind of sense it even if you can't hear
anything, but once I did hear you sort of cry out, "Oh, daddy, it's so
beautiful."
It was the girl's turn to blush. "I should have
guessed," she said. "That was our first time with my nightie all the way
off. First time with a candle. Third time, all together. The first two
happened the previous week and I guided him under my nightie to get my
tummy wet."
"How did you do it?" the boy asked, his voice now hoarse
and thick.
"With my hands," the girl said, her voice also husky.
"Like a boy does it for himself."
"Does it feel nice to you?" he quizzed, "I mean I know it
would for a guy, but how about you?"
"He's huge and hot in my hands," the nine year old said,
"and I feel him swell and pant to my touch, especially now that I'm a
little experienced with him, so it's nice, and I can dream about when I
grow up a little more and wake up knowing the man I love most next to you
has left his seed swimming inside me."
"What if you get a baby when that starts happening?" Ryan
asked.
"A girl has to be thirteen or fourteen for that to
happen," Laura said, "but the way I feel now, I'd rather have his, or
yours, than any boy's I know of."
"Well," the boy said, smiling shyly into his sister's
eyes, "I'm glad I'm ahead of Ralph and the Coot brothers."
"I may go with them, sometime," the girl said, "girls
have a wild side just like boys do, they want to have sensation once in
awhile, maybe a couple of times a year, to contrast with tender affection
and gentle love every night."
"All the Coots?" he asked.
"Maybe once in my life," the girl admitted. "I'd rather
it happened than die wondering what it would have been like. I think
that's the hardest part, wondering. For example, not that this is a
lesson, or anything, I wondered what was happening with dad when I lay next
to him and he was under my nightgown, and when we had a candle, and I was
naked, and saw, it satisfied me. By the same token, you're probably
wondering what it looks like when we're together, how he touches me, and,
especially, what it will be like when I'm in his arms right up until the
end."
"Beautiful," the boy whispered reflexively.
"Good thing, too," the girl said, laughing quietly,
"because it's followed by years of pee, poop, buggers, and upchuck."
"That'll keep you away from them Coots," the boy said.
"You don't want a bunch of Cooties around the house?" the
girl giggled.
"Maybe one, to make ours look good in comparison," Ryan
allowed.
"Wow, am I glad to hear that," Laura said. "The only
thing that scared me was you, that you'd run away if you found out, or do
something crazy."
"Crazy would be interfering," the thirteen year old
noted, "I guess I just wanted to be sure you were okay."
"Ryan," the girl whispered, eyes huge, "there's enough
moon so we don't need a candle, if you don't mind my looking like a ghost."
"That's not why I asked you to come out here," the boy
stammered.
"There aren't a lot of whys and wherefores involved," the
girl said, "and planning and strategy usually backfire. It just happens,
especially the first time, and when fire cometh not from the earth, nor the
flood from the creek, nor the locust in their millions, but rather the
birds continue to sing and the grass continues to grow, you realize that
there's a lot of bag and baggage attached, you know, sin and taboo, and,
underlying all, a whole segment of society who's livelihood is dependent on
the sale of superstition and ancient lore composed by who knows who, but,
to a man, for no woman wrote a word of it, who thought the earth was flat
as a fritter and would peel you alive if you thought otherwise. It's not
all garbage, there are behavioral models in Christianity that are noble and
positive, but when it comes to saying, arbitrarily, thou shalt not love, it
ends up with the heart and mind, and, for sure, the loins and belly, to
find the truth, and the truth is there is love, quaking and absolute, maybe
the best and deepest of all, where it's preached as an abomination."
So saying (and wouldn't you like having such a pixie
running around your house?), the girl shed her nightgown and lay back on
the grass, arms stretched high over her head emphasizing her childish
nipples and legs widely spread. Ryan also stripped, returning quickly to
his kneels and shuffling between the girl's thighs. As he lowered himself
to his sister he whispered: "Are you going to tell him?"
"Yes," the nine year old said, reaching down with her
right hand to guide the boy, "and I'm going to tell Nancy and Becky, too.
The only bad part with dad was keeping it a secret, and that part's over.
I don't even care if every man in town winks every time they see me, I'll
fight back by once in awhile giving one of them every single last thing he
wants or can imagine, again and again, for hours, even things daddy won't
let me try with him, and see how that shuts them all up."
I wasn't tiring of the story but felt I could use a
break. "I've never been like this so long," Jason whispered to me, filling
the silence as we lay, my left leg linked to his right, masturbating very
carefully.
"Me either," I responded, "except for being inside Janet
while she was telling about her brother with Marshall and Haley."
"How did you keep from cumming inside her?" the beauty
asked.
"Unsuccessfully," I admitted, "times three." It seemed
an extension of a familiar theme, things left out, so I pursued it, however
tenuous the connection.
"How many times were you unsuccessful with Angela when
Bambi graduated?" I asked.
"Five," Jason said, "but I was nineteen."
"Tell me about it," I urged, yes friends, still a writer,
still on duty.
"She's such a tiny thing," the young adult replied,
"looks just like the little girl who finds Big Bird on her porch in PBS
commercial, brown hair, brown eyes, and real calm, quiet, and friendly.
Underneath, she's much more vivid. We were, after all, out there with
loaded rifles, and, the week before, she'd wanted to see what it was like
to be scared, so she made me tow her on her bike, like a water-skier, and
she kept nodding her head up to fifty miles an hour, then it was me who
chickened out and slowed my bike."
"And you'd talked about it before the hunt?" I quizzed.
"A lot. I had an outbreak of acne that year, and
Collette Roy wouldn't go out with me. Angela had kept her ears open, and
she's such a mouse she'd absorbed quite a bit for a six year old and went
into long explanations of how she should be my girlfriend because we
usually spent the afternoons together and she'd always be there for me, `if
I turned into a toad with the beak of a vulture.'"
"Did you experiment at all?" I probed.
"Just indirectly," Jason replied, "she'd sit on my lap
and wriggle, and I'd hold her gently by the waist while she pulled her
dress up in back, then she'd lie back against me, and we'd stay that was
for fifteen or twenty minutes with Angela wriggling, you know, from time to
time depending on how things were, and we'd talk about her being seven."
"If she'd been a little more of a grownup," I prattled
with my best Old-Yankee styling, "she'd have been more interested in your
being seven."
"I knew it was best we didn't wait `til she was nine,"
Jason said, and there we let it lie.
The warm spring morning shimmered with the haze of
approaching summer, the orchestra of buzzing insects in counterpoint to the
darting swifts and sparrows brushed the rolling pasturelands with a heady
cocktail with verdant brushwork, back. The two lay side by side, the girl
with a double-barreled twelve gauge, Jason with a .22 Browning. It
shouldn't have been this way, of course, the six-year-old female should
have been coloring with her sisters or washing her doll outfits, but tykes,
sufficiently nurtured, are adults in lamb's clothing and often get what
they want. The two had battered themselves to neutral talking about sex.
Angela made a point of the fact neither Bridgette nor Karen had suffered
from being mounted by their brother on their seventh birthdays; Jason
arguing that, a, he was smaller, three year earlier, than he was now, and,
b, she was smaller, at some months short of family day, than they had been,
plus, both had limped stiffly for several hours after the coupling. Angela
said, "No wonder, you were with them all night long." It was a point.
But, again opposite, was simply the family tradition of waiting, as someone
had put it, being better than no tradition at all. She'd suggested at
least experimenting. He'd rejoined that she was much too beautiful to do
anything half-way with, tapping the bear killing weapon in her hand as
evidence. That's where the conversation stood when three deer entered the
scene.
Angela raised her shotgun, but a
don't-even-think-about-it look from her brother inspired her to lower it
and flick back on the safety. "If you actually fire that goddamned thing,
at this angle (prone)," he whispered in her ear, `your collar bone will
fuse to your hip bone and I'll have to break you, the other way, over my
knee before I can take you home." The girl scowled and was about to stick
out her tongue when her eyes grew first large, then huge. "Oh, Jason," she
whispered, and the nineteen year old turn in the direction of her gaze.
What had happened was this: the buck, stalking the doe, had run amuck of
the fawn. In scant seconds the mighty beast mounted the animal a third his
size. Jason and Angela watched in profile as, shuddering, it's head back
and eyes wild, the male smoothly and fully entered the immature deer and
began thrusting urgently. The doe watched alertly, making no move, and the
fawn stood her ground, legs planted, taking the fast, hot thrusting of the
male as if born for no other reason. Angela let out a grunt of
fascination, the doe and fawn heard it, and ran off, leaving the male
animal still ejaculating heavily onto the grass. As the buck regained
control of its senses, it too disappeared back into the hedgerows, unaware
of its overwhelming impact on the human population at hand.
"Why on earth was I arguing against this?" Jason wondered
as he began unbuttoning the first grader. Her hands, in turn, were all
over him, buttons, belt, laces, and zipper. They didn't luxuriate, time
enough for that later, just got naked as fast as they could.
"Bridgette and Karen wanted to watch me to what the buck
did before we went all the way," he informed the girl, "and it won't take
long if you'd like to see."
"Yes," the girl said, manhandling her outrageously
handsome brother onto his back and settling astride his right thigh. "Is
the how?" she asked, first fondling, then stroking his huge circumcised
penis.
"Yes, darling," Jason whispered to the entranced child as
he began bucking to her tentative experimentation.
"Tonight they can teach me everything," the girl mused as
her hand settled into an intense and urgent rhythm. "Guess again," Jason
felt like saying, as both his nine and eleven year old sisters could
possibly take lessons instead of giving them.
Jason tried to let the girl gain experience but she was
too good and after a minute he surrendered completely to her slim, white
body and her deft, gripping hand. "I'm cumming," he whispered then began
showering both of them with his hot seed. Minutes later, Jason lay as
dazed as the buck, but his fawn did not run off. Instead, she retrieved
the big Parker, placed in against her hip, and fired the right barrel. The
concussion sent her sprawling back across her naked, slick brother and she
scrambled herself so her bare chest wax against his, kissed him furiously,
then whispered, "Now I'll have a reason to limp for a week."
Is it possible to rally and surrender at the same time?
Jason found so. He rallied enough to manhandle the child underneath him,
yet surrendered enough to brace himself rigidly over her as she got
comfortable and grabbed her knees the better to spread her legs, and
furtherer surrendered to her house-mouse beauty by taking her gently over
nearly half an hour, ejaculating repeatedly in response to her heated
orgasms until his belly was hard against hers. "I guess it will be two
weeks," she whispered, then lost control, mewing and bucking savagely
against him as she sensed him once again pulsing deep in her belly. For
the remainder of the morning the girl braced herself over a log padded with
their clothing, her brother's chest against her back, his muscular thighs
working continually against her pretty little bottom as they took a bag of
three fat rabbits.
"How long was she confined to a wheelchair?" I asked, but
Jason assured me he paid every attention to her bruised hip and she was
good as new in no time. (Better than?) "You're the younger male," I went
on after a minute, "when I'm with Stephen I usually get him wet, then he
cums in my hand, would you like it to happen that way?"
"Yes," he said, and we lay on our sides (my left) facing
each other.
"Does he make you cum?" Jason asked.
There were the odd thousand few things Stephen didn't do,
he was "left-out" taken to the extreme, but making me cum with his urgent
hands, so I'd wet him, so he could cum, was one thing he did do. I
explained all this, and promising to get us back to Chicago way before the
next flight, I surrendered to Jason, then had him assume Stephen's
position, hands high, back arched, as I stroked his slick penis until he
gasped and went rigid. His semen flowing heavily down over my right fist
rather than spurting as it undoubtedly had with little Angela. Very
erotic.
Haley was doing a brilliant job playing Laura, adlibbing
fluently as the beautiful Ryan again entered her, thrusting quickly until
his sparse growth of silky blond hair was wet against the sweating, panting
child. "Daddy, daddy," she whispered loudly as her slim legs went around
the boy's heaving buttocks and her hands rand up and down his heaving
flanks.
Years on stage had taught Marshall Mathers to recognize a
cue when he heard one, and the handsome athletic father fell to his knees
and shuffled across the grass, which was actually a large, thick rug, and
huddle over the openly mating children, not touching but just watching as
their intensity quickly built until the girl splayed a hand to him crying
out, "Oh, daddy!" as she felt Ryan ejaculate hard and fast.
Now she was his. The young teen, half exhausted, rolled
gently free, the girl keeping, knuckles white, his left hand in her right
hand. Ryan, summoning the last of his strength, helped Haley rise her
bottom high, as Marshall moved to her. Haley found him with her right
hand, guiding him, and the man moved more to his daughter. Her left hand
went to his flank, stroking tender welcome, her right still gripping
Ryan's. There are a whole variety of voyeuristic experiences to be had,
but one impossible to beat is for a boy to insert the fingers of his right
hand between the bodies of and adult male in the process of mounting his
loving child. Such fingers wish to do no walking. He was so big, so hot,
so slow, patient, and gentle they would have been happy hibernating for
months.
"Ryan," the nine year old gasped, "put your legs
underneath me." The boy responded immediately, bracing himself on the
Louis chair and pivoting his long, coltish legs until the were nestled
under his young bride's bottom. As Marshall mounted fully the thirteen
year old eased his hand between the father and his daughter, his left hand
cradling the girl's head so she could gaze down between her body and the
dancer on top of her.
For long moments the tableau of father, daughter, and
juvenile lover remained static, frozen but for the heaving chests of all
three. As Haley became used to the enormity of what had happened,
physically and emotionally, her legs rose and she wrapped them around
Marshall's frozen buttocks. "I'll be ready pretty soon, daddy," she
whispered.
"Just relax, darling," the star said, "just relax and
realize what a hero your dad is because I feel Ryan's sperm on me, and I
want to ravage you to the bone."
"Daddy," the girl whispered in response, "has that ever
happened before? Have you ever been with a little girl who'd just been
with another mature male?"
"Yes, darling," the affectionate father said, "it's how
chopped liver was invented." Now talk about heroes, the girl giggled
happily, and still the panting, sweating adult didn't lunge against her,
raping her until she was half comatose.
Sensing her dad's answer was essentially true, never mind
the deli-icious humor, the girl returned to the question and the father
took his daughter back years into the past. "It was just after the
photography and posing," Marshall said, "if fact, Krippie's mom gave me
that sweater in the picture. Her brother, Mel, hadn't needed it, and they
lived next door, so they knew we were poor. He was a lot older, seventeen,
and she was nine, just like you. He was sort of half a best friend, even
though he was six years older, and so we hung out quite a bit, mostly in
his room playing his slot cars – no computers to speak of in those days.
One day he started asking me questions about his sister. He said she was
getting interested in him, trying to peek at him in the bathroom and stuff,
and asked me what I thought and what I would do if she were my sister. I
asked him how much stuff like that happened and he said quite a bit, and
more all the time. I asked how long it had been going on, and he said for
a few months that he'd really noticed. I said that, to me, it indicated
more than a childish fantasy or fleeting curiosity, and was more the
behavior of a young female who knew what she wanted. He asked if I think
he was a creep if something did happen, and I was pretty honest, even in
those days, and I told him from where I stood, he'd be a creep if he didn't
respond to what was obviously a long-term issue with his little sister. He
said I was the way coolest friend in the world. About then, Krippie
arrived home from Brownies. We saw her get out of the van, and Mel
stripped on the spot, asking if I though he was too big. I assured him
this in fact was the case, but didn't stress the point because I didn't
know. He opened the window as soon as the van was out of sight, standing
and looking down at her. She looked up and ten seconds later she came
flying through the door, springing against him like a tiger. Being a
gentleman, I zipped downstairs to close the front door, then returned as he
was lying her back on the bed, asking if she was really sure, following her
requests that he pose for her, and nodding at me in response to her
suggestion that I get naked, also. I did, then we both took half an hour
undressing her, letting her experiment with us all she wanted. She told us
not to be nervous because three of her classmates were letting their
brothers or dads spray with them, and they were as nice as any girls in the
whole school. Mel, who was tall and slim, definitely a swimmer, crawled
over her while she lay with her arms up and legs spread. I helped her like
Ryan helped you, and then stood beside the bed and watched as it started
happening. When I'd lean over by Krippie's shoulder, Mel would rise high
on his arms so we could all see what was happening. Krippie was a cute,
slim girl and the sight of almost a man between her legs, being so gentle,
got me so excited I started spraying on her chest without touching myself.
That made Mel cum immediately, then he brought me to her. His sperm was
really heavy and white and it tingled real sharp all over me, but also made
me much rougher and faster than I would have been if I hadn't knows she was
wet. That made me make her cum, so afterwards she got cute about losing
her virginity best and better."
Good timing. Haley whispered she was ready and Marshall
began surging slowly against her while her legs tightened in welcome. Both
she and Ryan used their hands wantonly in encouraging the incest, and in a
minute Ryan had taken up a fast, deliberate rhythm with his pretty nine
year old daughter. Frequently he'd rise high on his muscular arms so Ryan
could watch what he was doing to his young bride. The girl began hissing
rhythmically, mewing to both her young lover and her more mature by the
moment young father.
For all his lingo on stage, Marshall was the picture of
decorum as he moved heavily into the final stage of the rape. His eyes
glowed into those of his daughter, and his only words were `baby', and,
after ten minutes, `baby, I'm cumming.' Again he rose high and the girl
and her groom watched intently as a heavy, white smear of fresh, hot semen
gushed from between their sweating, panting bodies. The sight tripped the
raggedly on edge girl and she screeches as she began seizing and lashing
under the gallant breast of her proud father. The flow from his body
continued until rivulets formed a pool beneath the girl's slick bottom,
then he crumpled slowly to her arms and they began their first not-father,
not-daughter kiss. All night it happened in the hotel suite, again and
again, and the Italian clock on the marble mantel read two in the morning
before all three were asleep at the same time.
"Plus," I added, "Janet is pregnant, probably from her
father, so she's feeling on the high side of being female about now," this
by way of inviting him over some Saturday to spend the night. He thought
the idea absolutely terrific, and I bet he would have even if it hadn't
been a ticket on to Chicago, or wherever the group was performing. So
wonderful, in fact, was my invitation – guess what? "I was wondering if
you had this coming Wednesday evening free," Jason said. "It would be
really cool if you could come over. We're having a party. Angela's
seventh."
I gave it some thought. We were masturbating openly
again, legs linked, and this time it was Jason who began tensing first.
Stephen would spray on me, in reverse of our usual order, once in awhile,
and I lay extra still as the powerful Greek beside me began gasping then
rolling half to his right, warning me. His cum started hot, white, and
copiously as he sagged an lost his breath. I followed, harder than ever,
seconds later, his glazed eyes fixed on me for long seconds before they
closed and we both lay back, exhausted.
"Should I bring slugs?" I asked, "or would she prefer
double-O buck?"
THE END (CONCLUSION)
About the author.
Thomas Cochran Emerson is entering his third year as a Web contributor.
Under the pen name Feather Touch he published "Jimmy and Frogger", "The
Flyyy", "Dennis the...", "Ropeyarn", "Creative Camp", "Blissy's Song",
"Michelle's First Secret" and "Michelle's Second Secret". As R. Forbes
Emerson, he has published "Hollywood Stories", "Santa Fe Stories",
"Stonington (Me.) Stories", "The Tarzan Mushroom Hunters", and, most
recently, four hundred thousand words of "One Fish at a Time", a work in
progress. All his files can be found in the "Nifty.org" Archive. Most are
listed under Bisexual, Adults/Young Friends. Others may be found under
Bisexual Camping and one or two may be filed under the heading sf/fantasy.
"Boxers or Briefs?" is listed under Gay Incest, and his latest, "Rebecca",
under Bi Incest. "Fullerton Park & Ride", bi/incest. Latest addition adds
yet another pen name in Pen Dragon: "Mississippi Stories – Stephan" and
"Mississippi Stories – Janet", again, under bi/incest. These, with this
chapter, have been re-posted as "Shady's Closet". In total Mr. Emerson's
contributions run to some 1.1 million words. The author lives in Belize,
"slightly addicted to the Caribbean." While his stories never cheat in
upholding the alternative tradition, readers sallying forth with optimistic
outlooks would be well advised to always download alternative material. It
can be many miles of rough road between this boy losing his underpants and
that girl letting big brother experiment under her training bra. Yes, you
have been warned.
Emerson was born in his ancestral home of Concord, Massachusetts, in 1946,
"The Year of the Porsche," in his words. An absolute devotee of the craft
of leading English astray, thus providing gainful employment to those who
would lead it back, he admits to being a hot-house artist with the modern
word processor his soil, water, air, light, and enabling nutrient. "Hell,
all I need then is a seed," he says.
Directly descended from the leading activist of the Revolutionary War, and
scion of a family that includes the most quoted man in history, his poet
and philosopher great great grandfather; the CEO of AT&T during the heyday
of Bell Labs and Western Electric, and other luminaries ranging from two
governors (Winthrop and Bradford) of the Plymouth Colony to the founder of
American Standard, he views his (native) countrymen as his subjects, and
writes of and to them accordingly. His hobbies are limited to photography
and trying to explain Samantha, his fifteen-year-old girlfriend, to an
unamused father. Since flattery got him everywhere, he likes the
occasional reader letter.
Quote: "Was the phrase `adult entertainment' coined just for me?"
Award: The Congress of Behavioral Scientists' lifetime "What Me Worry"
prize.
Posted by Thomas@btl.net.
xxx